


Suitable Partners

by ButterscotchCandybatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Sibling Incest, Unreliable Narrator, Watersports, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterscotchCandybatch/pseuds/ButterscotchCandybatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Holmescest, dark and bitter. Rape and rape apology, coercion, abuse, domestic violence, mind and body fucks. There will be comfort in the form of "John to the rescue" eventually but there will be lots of hurt first. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings. There will be triggering material here for those of you with issues around consent, violence, abuse and victimization. This is not role-play BDSM between consenting parties, this is actual physical abuse and humiliation with not a safeword in sight. Dark!Mycroft. There will be hurt/comfort Johnlock eventually, but that’s a long way off and there will be lots of hurt first. I'm not kidding this is probably the darkest thing I have ever written. You have been warned.

Sherlock called Mycroft his arch-enemy to other people, not to his face. In public, Sherlock indulged himself in little shows of defiance which amused them both. In private, he would never dare to be so bold. When they were alone Sherlock would obey Mycroft’s every command, the few that he ever bothered to give. Sherlock was well trained by now and did not require many commands; he was nicely broken in.

The first time John was kidnapped by Mycroft it was a warning. Mycroft was telling Sherlock in their own private language that John did not belong to Sherlock. Mycroft could take John away from Sherlock whenever he felt like it, and John would not even be aware of the danger. Sherlock understood the message, and later that week he voluntarily presented himself at the Diogenes Club for Mycroft’s inspection.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the bedroom, fully dressed and blindfolded. He hated the blindfold, but they both knew that it was necessary. They had discovered very early on that Sherlock had no control over what deductions spilled out of his mouth. The only way to prevent him from displeasing Mycroft was to either blindfold or gag him. They had likewise discovered that one or the other was ideal – using both together was likely to provoke a panic attack in Sherlock ever since that time when Mycroft had fallen asleep and left him bound and gagged for too long.

Mycroft accepted Sherlock’s limitations with resignation. He was used to the defects of his brother and had learned to work around most of them. Occasionally he would lose his temper and beat him bloody, but that happened very rarely these days and he always sent him a particularly nice present afterwards.

Mycroft walked around behind Sherlock, partly to enjoy the view but mostly because he knew that Sherlock did not like being observed when he was unable to observe in return. Mycroft enjoyed keeping Sherlock just a little bit on edge and unsure of what to expect. He always trembled so deliciously after he had been given a fright.

Silently, Mycroft slid up behind Sherlock and whispered in his ear from less than ten centimetres away, “John does not belong to you.”

Sherlock repeated dutifully, “John does not belong to me.”

Mycroft prompted Sherlock again, “You do not belong to John.”

Sherlock could say the rest without help, “I do not belong to John. I belong to Mycroft. No one else will ever want me. I am grateful to Mycroft for taking care of me. Let me please you, Mycroft. What would you like today, Master?”

Sherlock stood still, only the faintest tremor visible in his fingertips, which was more emotion than he had displayed for months. Mycroft noted the change and wondered if there was something about John which created such a strong response in Sherlock. Anyway, back to the present moment – what _would_ he like today?

Mycroft assessed his own mood dispassionately. He was angry, a little bored and frustrated with the diplomat from South Korea. He was not in the mood for sex, not even with Sherlock. He needed to relieve his feelings more directly. He spoke aloud, not for Sherlock’s benefit, but to see him shiver. “Today I think we will play with the paddle.”

Mycroft did not always require Sherlock to acknowledge his commands verbally. His complete physical capitulation was easy to read in his body. What value were words when his total submission was required? Mycroft moved to the table and took up the paddle before standing directly behind Sherlock in the middle of the room. Mycroft slapped the paddle against his hand just lightly enough to make a sound. When Sherlock only trembled without otherwise moving, Mycroft sighed with impatience and waited for Sherlock to take the next step.

“For fuck’s sake!” Mycroft finally exploded, “Do I have to tell you everything? How many years have you been doing this and you _still_ can’t get it right? You are lucky I put up with you! No-one else would! Drop your pants right now or this affair is _over_!”

Sherlock started violently and with trembling fingers he tore all his own clothes off and threw them into a corner of the room. Mycroft would have allowed him to keep his shirt on, but Sherlock was too upset now to listen to further instructions. The threat of being left alone always did that to him and Mycroft bit his lip with vexation at himself. Sherlock would be too wound up now to put on a good show. He could never react naturally when he was too frightened. He would be too busy trying to second-guess what sounds and responses Mycroft would want.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his own nose to force back his incipient headache. Should he just put it all off and try again another day? He wasn’t sure if even paddling Sherlock’s arse black and blue would make him feel better. Still, Sherlock was here and naked, and it would be a shame to have cleared his diary for nothing. Maybe a little mind fuck first? Would that be enough of a pick-me-up for him to enjoy the rest? It was always worth a try.

Mycroft sighed loudly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m a bit on edge today.”

Sherlock knew better than to reply with anything that could be interpreted as confirmation. “I live to please you, sir. How can I help?”

“Just take the blindfold off for a minute.” Mycroft deliberately allowed his speech patterns to relax into something less formal. “Want a drink?”

Sherlock took off the blindfold, but kept it gathered in the palm of his left hand. He would probably be putting it on again later anyway. “Yes, please. A drink would be lovely. What can I have?”

Mycroft waved his hand at the table in the corner of the room. “Help yourself to anything cold you like.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and went to inspect the table. Mycroft never allowed him tea or coffee but being permitted to choose for himself was quite a concession. His hand hovered over the whiskey bottle for a moment, then descended slowly as Mycroft did not speak to stop him. Sherlock poured himself a generous shot and added water to his glass. Wise choice, Mycroft reflected. His brother really was quite clever in his own way, and nearly as untrusting as Mycroft. Ice would have introduced a lot of potential new pain elements. If Mycroft wanted to play with ice he would have to get it himself. Not today, at least.

As Sherlock and Mycroft sipped their drinks they chatted lightly about current affairs and political scandals. Except for the fact that Sherlock was naked it could have been a perfectly ordinary afternoon visit to the office by any younger brother. Mycroft surreptitiously checked the time. He could allow ten to twelve minutes for this phase. Investing his time now would pay off later.

Mycroft planned the next stage of the scene. Should he break routine, just to see how Sherlock reacted? Why not. He could live a little. If the scene went to hell he would just get Sherlock back again next week. With one more loud sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and started unbuttoning his waistcoat. He tossed both onto the bed and sank down into the seat of a wingback chair near the drinks table. He rubbed the back of his own neck. That should be a clear enough hint.

Sure enough, Sherlock stepped up behind the chair and asked softly, “Would you like me to rub your shoulders?”

“Just for a few minutes,” murmured Mycroft. “I’m expected at a meeting by half three.” Mycroft watched under his lids for any of Sherlock’s tells. The boy was getting better, Mycroft had to give him that. He put down his drink on the table and came to stand behind the chair without any change of facial expression. His hopeful wishes were expressed only in the slightly increased alacrity of his step as he moved behind Mycroft.

Sherlock knew better than to make any demands or requests of Mycroft. He simply placed his warm hands on Mycroft’s shoulders and started to massage through the shirt. It was a fact acknowledged between them that if Mycroft wanted his shirt off he would take it off himself. It was rare enough for this kind of tender touch between them without adding bare skin as well. He liked the contrast between skin and clothing and almost never removed more of his own than was necessary for their coupling. Mycroft tried to remember the last time he had taken his shirt off with Sherlock. It had been several years, at least. Had it been while Sherlock was still at university? He could not remember and was not interested enough to spend further time considering the issue.

He tilted his head back to stretch his neck and looked up at Sherlock, allowing a smile to cross his face. “Thank you, that feels better.”

Sherlock nodded without speaking and let his hands fall to his sides. He understood a dismissal when he heard one.

“You know,” Mycroft sighed, “I’m tired today. Should we just call the whole thing off and try again next week?”

“Whatever you like, Master.” Sherlock knew better by now than to fall into such an obvious trap.

“Yes, of course. Why don’t you get dressed and go home, and I’ll call you next week.”

Sherlock moved slowly across the room to his pile of clothes, as if he expected Mycroft to change his mind at any moment. Which, of course, he did. He shrugged into his shirt without buttoning it and started sorting through the pile of clothes looking for his underwear. He found his socks and pulled them on. He couldn’t help glancing at Mycroft and the thoughts were plain to read in his movements. _Are you really letting me go? Or do you just want me to dress so you can strip me again?_

The timing of the blow took delicacy, and the anticipation was delicious. How to balance the hope of freedom so that it would sting the most when it was taken away? Mycroft bent to unlace his shoes, letting Sherlock see as he slipped them off and stretched out his feet in only his socks. That should reassure Sherlock that the formal part of the encounter was over.

“Leave the underwear off, just put on your trousers. I’ll expect to see you dressed the same way next week,” said Mycroft calmly. That did it. Sherlock thought he had received confirmation he was really escaping, and his cheeks flushed. He tried to duck his head to hide it, but Mycroft observed every detail, as he always did.

Mycroft rubbed his fingertips over the handle of the paddle resting against the back of the chair, out of Sherlock’s sight. Sherlock’s movements were getting quick and sloppy now. He was excited as he felt liberty approaching. He buttoned his shirt except for the cuffs, picked up his shoes and waited for Mycroft to dismiss him.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft spoke his name and enjoyed the sudden pallor that spread over his face. “I’ll send a car for you next week, to Baker Street. Would that suit?”

Sherlock hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He obviously hated the idea and wanted to conceal everything from John for as long as possible. He was also afraid of saying anything that might delay his escape. Finally he ventured, “It might be more convenient if you just told me what time to be here.”

Interesting. He wanted to keep this affair from John enough to enter into negotiations with Mycroft. Unusual move on Sherlock’s part. Mycroft waved one long hand without looking up. “That will be fine. I’ll call you during the week. You can go.” Mycroft counted in his head. _Three. Two. One._

Fast and silent as a panther, Mycroft crossed the room and caught Sherlock just as he placed his hand on the door handle. The door was locked, of course, but Sherlock probably did not know that. Mycroft’s hand closed over Sherlock’s wrist in a viciously tight grip and he dug his nails in for good measure. He could feel Sherlock’s pulse accelerating wildly. Mycroft jerked him forward by yanking him off balance. His feet stumbled to keep him upright. Mycroft swung the paddle as hard as possible and it cracked across the lower half of Sherlock’s ribs on his left side. He let out a shocked gasp and grunt of pain, and his plump lips formed a comical little heart shape of surprise.

Mycroft felt a thrill at genuinely surprising his younger brother. He followed up his advantage with several more strikes as hard as he could manage across Sherlock’s arse. To Mycroft’s unexpected delight, Sherlock lost his balance completely and toppled forwards onto his hands and knees, dropping his shoes. Mycroft laughed and struck Sherlock forehand and backhand with the paddle across his buttocks and the back of his thighs until his shoulder developed a slight ache from the exertion and his black mood evaporated completely.

Sherlock was crying silently, on his hands and knees with his head hanging down loosely when Mycroft stopped to catch his breath. “Ah, Sherlock, you are such a tonic! I feel better now.”

Mycroft crossed the room and sat in the wingback chair again to replace his shoes. He dropped the paddle beside the chair and picked up his waistcoat and jacket. His step was light and his blood was fizzing with excitement and power. Sherlock always did that to him. On his way out the door Mycroft dropped a fond kiss on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Thank you, love. You are so good for me. I have to go now, but I’ll call you next week.”

Then he was gone.

Sherlock allowed himself a moment of weakness to collapse on the floor and sob for a few breaths. Then he steadied himself and wiped his face. He wondered if he wanted to inspect the damage, then reflected that he might as well put his pants back on while he was at it. He gathered up his clothes on the way and limped into the ensuite bathroom. In front of the mirror he lifted his shirt and hissed involuntarily at the sight of the bruises already starting to form over his ribs. He probed the darkest spots with his fingertips but there were no specific points of tenderness. He knew from experience that meant nothing was broken, but he would be purple for at least a week.

He splashed some cold water on his face to reduce the redness around his eyes. Mycroft was always very careful never to mark him anywhere it might show. He would be very cross if Sherlock’s uncontrolled tears left marks on his face that might raise questions. Sherlock drank a bit of cold water and sat down to tie his shoes. He checked his phone for emails and messages.

After ten minutes he straightened up, lifted his chin and checked himself again in the mirror. He looked good. Tall, handsome and poised with not a trace of tears or bruises visible anywhere. That was their private secret. His and Mycroft’s. Only they knew what they were to each other. If the world were to find out, it would try to split them up. It was just the two of them against the world, and it always would be.


	2. Chapter 2

John slammed out of the flat in search of air. Sherlock was really being too ridiculous! It was one thing to be asked to pass over a pen or to make a cup of tea but to fetch a mobile phone out of the man’s own jacket pocket went beyond the pale! He might be a genius, but he was also an overbearing, dominating, inconsiderate tosser! And the kitchen table never had enough space to eat on. And the fridge was always full of inedible and probably contaminated specimens. The man might not eat himself, but some people liked to be sure that food from their own fridge was safe for human consumption!

John huffed to himself with indignation. Playing the violin at night and not speaking for days, ha! Those were not the worst things about having Sherlock Holmes for a flatmate, not by the proverbial country mile. If he’d known what his life would be like three months ago, he would never have taken the flat with Sherlock Holmes at all!

Well, probably wouldn’t have. Oh, all right, even if he _had_ known about all this, he still would have. John smiled to himself. Sherlock was a twat all right, but he had introduced John to a London under the surface, a London most people never saw. He had turned John’s life from a featureless wasteland to a daily adventure – even if that daily adventure was wondering if he was going to get food poisoning from eating leftover Chinese.

John wandered into the supermarket to pick up some milk – what did Sherlock do with all the milk anyway? He didn’t seem to drink it, yet it disappeared from their flat by the litre. John wondered idly whether it wouldn’t be easier to start taking his tea black.

He picked up two litres of milk, and a loaf of bread and sent a text message to Sherlock to ask if they needed anything else while he was at the shops. He eyed the bananas for a moment before deciding that they would probably go off before anyone got the chance to eat them. Just then his phone buzzed with a text alert:

_A glass bottle and some turpentine. Ink if convenient. SH_

John recollected vaguely that Sherlock had been doing some experiment involving soaking different objects in ink for different periods of time. He had thought that experiment was over, but apparently not. With a sigh, John stepped out of the queue for the checkout and turned back into the supermarket to look for the requested items.

**\+ + + + +**

John arrived back at the flat, dragging the two large shopping bags up the stairs and into the kitchen. Sherlock was lying stretched out on the sofa, as usual.

“I’m fine, you don’t need to offer to help or anything,” he called out. Sherlock did not so much as flicker an eyelid. Typical.

John filled the kettle and flicked the switch for it to boil while he put away the shopping. He cleared the top shelf of the fridge of experiments and put all the food together, hoping that none of the experiments could climb. He thought about the mould experiment from a month before and shivered.

“Tea?” he called out to Sherlock. There was no answer from the living room. Sherlock was probably still in the Mind Palace. John made two cups of tea anyway, one with milk and one with sugar. He put the one with sugar on the coffee table within Sherlock’s reach, and took the other to the table where his laptop was waiting for him to write up their latest case for his blog.

Just as John sat down, Sherlock spoke without opening his eyes. “I need your laptop, bring it here please.”

“What?” John was confused. “I was just about to write up our latest case. What’s the matter with yours?”

“It’s in the bedroom. Too far. You can either hand me yours or go and fetch mine. As you prefer.” Sherlock resumed his eyes closed posture and awaited John’s decision.

Finally John sighed and went to the bedroom to fetch Sherlock his own computer. Living with a genius was interesting, but it could also be bloody trying at times.

**\+ + + + +**

Sherlock and John had been working at their respective computers for some time when Sherlock suddenly interrupted John’s train of thought.

“So. Dinner. I thought we’d go to Angelo’s. If you start getting ready now we can leave in ten minutes and make it there by seven. Hurry please, I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten at all today.”

John blinked, and then shut his computer in resignation. There was no was he was going to finish his post with Sherlock whining about being hungry. He wondered about the sudden rush, and why Sherlock hadn’t consulted him about his preferences for dinner – he had gone shopping just that morning after all. Still, he could make the risotto another time. If Sherlock wanted to eat, far be it from John to get in the way.

“OK, sure, I’ll just get my jacket.”

“And change out of your jeans.”

“What? There’s nothing wrong with my jeans! Angelo’s isn’t a dressy place and besides, it’s not like we’re going on a date or something.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“Fine! But you better be paying if you want to dictate to me how to dress.” Still muttering, John climbed the stairs to his room.

On the sofa, Sherlock smiled to himself. It was all going exactly as planned.

**\+ + + + +**

As usual, Angelo himself was overjoyed to see them and showed them to their seat in the window. It had a ‘reserved’ sign on it, but that was quickly moved to another table. Nothing was too good for Sherlock and his date. John watched the scene with some discomfort, but on the whole was resigned to the fact that there was no point in protesting. Angelo thought they were dating and Sherlock had no problem with accepting preferential treatment, so it was only John who felt vaguely uncomfortable with the whole thing, like he was accepting favours on false pretences.

Once they were seated, Sherlock glanced quickly over the menu and held up a hand for the waitress to take their order.

“Sherlock, wait!” protested John. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Sherlock ignored him. He smiled at the waitress and said, “I’ll have the fish of the day, John will have the lasagne and a green salad to share, please. Some herb bread to start and two glasses of the house white. Tap water for the table and that’s all, thank you.”

John watched the waitress leave, then hissed in low tones at Sherlock, “What the hell is the matter with you? The lasagne here is fine, but I’m not drinking white wine with it! You could at least have ordered me a red or even better, a beer. Anyway, why can’t I choose my own dinner? What is going on with you today anyway?”

Sherlock smiled mysteriously and raised one eyebrow. “Don’t you like it when we eat together?”

“Well, yes. I mean, you need to eat more often than you do. But _I_ eat just fine thanks, I don’t need you to tell me what to eat!”

Sherlock frowned. This was not going as it was supposed to. John was supposed to be flattered and acquiescent, not making a fuss about wanting a beer! If Sherlock had ever dared to behave this way to _Mycroft_ he would have been punished so hard that he couldn’t sit for a week. Could that be what John wanted? Surely not, this was only the opening moves. John didn’t even know yet that Sherlock could deliver that kind of punishment.

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. “Fine. Call the waitress back then, and change your order to a _beer_ , if that will make you happy.” His tone easily conveyed the message that only Philistines drank beer and that Sherlock would never do so in public but that John could embarrass himself if he chose.

John just rolled his eyes. “Never mind. It doesn’t really matter, but don’t do that again. I mean it. I’m not your date and I’d really prefer to choose my own meal.”

Sherlock cast his eyes swiftly over John. His body language and words were in total accord. Could it be possible that John really _did_ mean it? That he not only was not Sherlock’s date, but that he never wanted to be? _Don’t do that again._ Could he be wrong? One more test, just one more push and then he would know if John wanted Sherlock to dominate him, be in a relationship with him, or not.

**\+ + + + +**

The rest of the dinner went smoothly, with Sherlock explaining the details of how he deduced the answer to the latest case from his website without even leaving the flat. John seemed open, admiring and almost _flirtatious_? Sherlock was starting to get a headache from all the mixed signals. Sometimes John seemed to admire him, to be in awe of him and in short, to feel about him the way Sherlock felt about Mycroft. Yet when Sherlock tried to _act_ the way Mycroft did to him, John pulled back, resisted and refused to enter into the game. Sherlock knew that he was not always spot on at interpreting social signals but this confusion was not his fault, was it?

When they arrived back at the flat Sherlock decided it was time to push John more openly, be more specific about wanting to start a sexual relationship. He thought back to how Mycroft had opened the sexual part of their relationship, back when Sherlock was a teenager. Oh yes, that had been a memorable time.

“John?”

“Hm?” John lifted his chin, turning his face up to show he was listening, but continued to log into his computer giving Sherlock his divided attention only.

“Come over here for a moment, please. I need you.” Sherlock smiled in a way that he hoped was suggestive. He’d never quite managed the variety of sinister smiles that Mycroft seemed to use so naturally.

John wasn’t looking. He was still gazing down at the computer screen. “What for Sherlock? I’m tired, I just wanted to check the blog and then I think I’ll go to bed.”

Sherlock dropped his voice to his deepest, darkest, sexiest register. “John. I need you to come over here and let me rest my feet on you.” Sherlock still shivered when he remembered how he had felt when Mycroft had said that to him. He had crawled over to Mycroft’s feet and that had been the beginning of his first (actually his only) sexual relationship… Forcing his mind back to the present moment, Sherlock looked at John to see how he was taking Sherlock’s overtures.

Not well, apparently. John was staring at him, doing his open mouthed goldfish impression. “Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous. I’m prepared to get you pens, your phone and even your laptop. I realize you are a genius and I’m just a regular person but this is beyond even your usual narcissistic demands. Forget it. I’m going to bed. In the morning let’s pretend that this weirdness never happened, OK?” Without waiting for an answer, John marched to the stairs and up to his own room, shutting the door firmly.

Well, that seemed to be a definitive answer. John was not interested in a sexual relationship with Sherlock. He sighed. It was a shame, really. He and John seemed so compatible in so many ways. It got a bit tiring always being at Mycroft’s beck and call, being the one being whipped and spanked and ordered around. Still, Mycroft was always able to make him feel better and he was proud that he could give Mycroft pleasure and make Mycroft feel good too. Should he call Mycroft? No, better not. Mycroft would call when he wanted to see Sherlock. He always did.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft had called a few days after John and Sherlock’s night in the restaurant and he was not pleased. He had seen or heard that Sherlock had ordered for John, had seemed to be in charge and _dominating_ John and Mycroft was not pleased _at all_.

Sherlock was now blindfolded, gagged and handcuffed naked to the bed in the Diogenes Club. He had tried to explain to Mycroft that nothing had happened, but Mycroft had been too angry to listen. He had torn Sherlock’s clothes off him, shoved a cleave gag in his mouth and cuffed him to the bed. There had been a nice bruise darkening one cheekbone even before the beating started, and that had been nearly half an hour ago. By now Sherlock could feel that his whole back and arse was striped with welts from the caning, and the cloth of the gag was soaked with his saliva from his involuntary groaning.

Unfortunately, Mycroft was still incredibly angry. The caning did not seem to have helped the situation much. The shouts of “Slut! Cheat! Whore!” were getting further apart, but the stripes were no lighter and Mycroft did not seem in any danger of tiring soon. Sherlock dropped his head to the bed and resolved grimly to endure as long as it took. Not that he had much choice. Mycroft had never given him a safeword as all their games stopped when Mycroft decided he was finished.

Sherlock tuned back in to Mycroft’s rants, looking for an opening to say something to appease him.

“After all that I’ve done for you…” _Stripe._

“Behind my back…” _Stripe._  

“If there’s anyone who should be looking outside this relationship it isn’t you.” _Stripe._

“Trying to top someone else…” _Stripe._

“As if you’ve ever been good enough for me, yet I’ve never tried to cheat on you.” _Stripe._

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” _Stripe._

At this, Sherlock moaned a denial. _No, never._ Mycroft paused in the whipping for a moment. He ran the tip of the cane down Sherlock’s spine.

“Did you want me to punish you more? Have I been too lenient on you? Is that it? You wanted some excitement?”

Sherlock shook his head frantically. He didn’t think he could cope with any more punishment than he already got on a regular basis.

Impatiently, Mycroft ripped the gag out of Sherlock’s mouth. “What then? Why were you trying to cosy up to John? What do you need that I’m not already giving you? Well?”

Sherlock ran his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth before trying to speak. “It was a mistake,” he finally whispered. “I thought… I thought John was interested in me, but he wasn’t.”

“Little bitch,” Mycroft backhanded Sherlock across the face so hard he half rolled over on the bed, only the restraint of the cuffs stopping him. “So you _were_ looking to start something with John? I should make you bleed. Besides, who but me would ever take you on? You’re rude, insolent and stupid. I can think rings around you. Who would ever tolerate your ridiculous airs apart from me? You know that everyone at the Yard hates you. Why would John be any different? Just because he’s broke and has to share a flat with someone doesn’t make him desperate enough to start anything with _you_.” The last word was punctuated with another slap.

Sherlock found himself saying anything he could think of to make Mycroft happy with him again, to make Mycroft _stop_. “No, it was a mistake. Of course John doesn’t like me. Of course John would never think that way about me. He hated what I ordered for him – I don’t have good taste like you, brother. I didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t know how to be the dominant one like you do. I won’t do it again – it’s always you in charge of me, just you. Just you Mycroft, you’re the one I love, the only one for me. Never again, never, never…” Sherlock trailed off, panting. His frantic reassurances seemed to have done the trick. Mycroft had stopped beating him anyway, and was staring at him thoughtfully instead.

“Up, slut. Into the bathroom. I’ve thought of something to teach you a lesson, but I don’t want to make a mess in here.”

“Yes, Mycroft, whatever you want. Please forgive me?”

“Not yet. You need to show me some repentance first.” Mycroft unbuckled the cuffs and gripped Sherlock by the upper arm, dragging him to the bathroom and shoving him towards the shower stall. “Get in and kneel down.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask a question, then shut it again. Mycroft would tell him what was required. All Sherlock needed to do was obey. He was not the thinker in this relationship.

Mycroft laughed, nastily. “Yes, open your mouth. Good boy.”

Sherlock knelt in the shower stall facing his brother. Mycroft approached his face and opened his trousers. Sherlock felt relief – if Mycroft would let him suck his cock, then he would be forgiven and it would be fixed between them. Mycroft was still soft, but Sherlock could work on that. He opened his mouth and waited expectantly.

“Close your eyes, whore. I’m in charge here, and I want you to know it.”

“Yes, Mycroft. I’m sorry, I…”

“Shut up. I don’t care what you think and I don’t care to hear your voice right now. I just want your mouth to do what it does best.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited to feel Mycroft’s cock in his mouth. And waited. Was Mycroft going to tease him by making him wait? Should he speak? No, better not disobey a direct instruction. He waited.

Just when he thought he couldn’t stand it any more, he felt a sudden splash of warm water over his face and into his mouth and down his chest. But no, not water. It had a slight acid and ammonia tang. Could it be…? His eyes popped open involuntarily to confirm what he already knew. Mycroft had his eyes half-closed in pleasure and relief and he was _pissing_ on Sherlock.

Sherlock’s first impulse was to retreat into the shower cubicle, or at least shield his face from the stream being directed down over him, but further consideration made him realize that Mycroft might (certainly would) get angry if he did that. Ducking his head would only shift the target from his face to his hair. No, the best strategy would be (always was) to just hold still and wait for Mycroft’s permission to move.

The warm stream gushing down over his face and chest finally slowed, then stopped. He heard Mycroft sigh above him.

“Look at you; a filthy whore.” Mycroft sniggered. “At least now the outside matches the inside, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock remained silent, which turned out to be the wrong move.

“I _said_ , the outside matches the inside, _doesn’t it?_ ” This time Mycroft’s voice was loaded with menace and promised retribution if it didn’t get the agreement it was looking for. Maybe even then.

“Yes, sir,” agreed Sherlock. “Would you like me to suck you now, sir?”

Mycroft appeared to be considering this offer. Finally he said “No, I don’t want to get all wet and disgusting, do I? I don’t want to be like you, _do I?”_

“No, sir.” Sherlock said quietly.

“Very well. You can shower and get dressed and take yourself home. I hope we won’t need to have this discussion ever again.”

Sherlock stayed on his knees in the shower stall, just to be sure, until he heard the outer door to the suite slam shut. Then he slowly climbed to his feet and turned on the shower taps. The water came out cold enough to make him gasp, but he just turned his back and let the cooling water play over the welts all down his back. After the shower he checked his back in the mirror. Mycroft had been hard on him, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been caned so much. He had never done anything to deserve Mycroft’s anger like this before.

Sherlock thought rather resentfully that it was actually partly John’s fault. If John hadn’t been so warm, so eager, leaning into Sherlock’s personal space and generally so complying it never would have occurred to Sherlock that he might want a relationship, and then this fiasco with Mycroft would never have occurred.

John. Mycroft. _Wait!_

Could it be that Sherlock was the one who was confused? John was a soldier, a killer, a surgeon used to being obeyed. It was true that he deferred to Sherlock in matters where Sherlock was the expert, such as on cases, but in his own sphere John could be quite dominant. Was Sherlock getting the wrong end of the stick altogether? Perhaps he should not have tried to dominate John, perhaps he should have offered to _submit_ to him?

Sherlock quailed a bit at the thought of being dominated by two men at once, but then cheered up when he realized that if John were to become his dominant, then perhaps he would protect him from Mycroft! Could John protect him from Mycroft? Sherlock had a moment of doubt. Well, only one way to find out. But for caution’s sake, perhaps the experimentation had better stay in the flat, just in case.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat on the sofa with his hands pressed palm to palm in front of his lips. He wasn’t actually in his Mind Palace, he just wanted John to think that so that he could observe him without interruption. John was drinking tea and pecking at the keyboard as he wrote a blog post. He lifted the mug to his lips and then glanced into it – obviously it was empty and he had not realized.

“I’m about to make tea, shall I bring you some?” Sherlock said.

John looked surprised and slightly suspicious. “It won’t be drugged? Or have anything in it apart from tea and milk?”

“No, John. English breakfast with a dash of milk, just how you normally like it.” Sherlock tried to sound humble and attentive.

“All right. I mean, thank you.” John watched as Sherlock went into the kitchen, as if wondering where the catch would be.

Sherlock made the tea and brought it to John, placing it next to the laptop and turning the handle to face the left for John’s convenience in picking up the mug. Care and attention was shown in noticing the little details, Sherlock knew that. Mycroft had beaten that lesson into him many years ago.

John took a sip and sighed happily. “Perfect, thank you.”

“John? I, um, wanted to apologize about the other day.”

John raised one eyebrow. “Is that what this is about? Never mind, let’s forget about it.”

“No, I wanted to say to you that I was completely wrong to ask you like that. You see, I wanted to show you that I was open to the idea of a relationship between us.”

John’s other eyebrow shot up and his jaw dropped open. “You mean asking me to be your footstool was your way of asking me to start a relationship with you?”

Sherlock blushed. “Ah, yes. I realize now I was completely wrong about that.”

“I’ll say!”

“Well, anyway, I wanted to ask you now if you… wanted me. If you wanted to have me, to make me yours.”

John chewed his lip for a moment. The wording was odd. There was something strange about Sherlock’s posture, like he was tensing up for something. Then Sherlock slid gracefully to his knees and sat on his heels at John’s feet with his head bowed, almost touching John’s knees.

John scooted back in his chair, away from where Sherlock was sitting on the floor. “What? What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?”

“You didn’t want me to boss you around, tell you what to do. I’m just showing you that I know how to take orders.”

“Sherlock, I don’t want you to take my orders. If we do this,” he gestured back and forth between them, “if we start an intimate relationship it won’t be because you got down on your knees and crawled to my bedroom. What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Sherlock bit his lip. A monster? Why would John feel that being masterful in a relationship would make him a monster? And if John neither wanted to be dominated nor to dominate him, then how could they have a relationship?

John sighed. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t mean… I guess you haven’t had a lot of experience in relationships, is that it?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. This would the best way out of an awkward situation. If John thought he had never had a relationship (and he never had, apart from Mycroft) then John would naturally assert control. Yes, this would work.

“All right,” said John, “we’ll take it slowly. Er, did you want to come up to my room, or shall we start here on the couch?”

Sherlock considered for a moment. John would probably be more assertive in his own room, in his own space. But would he want to take it so slowly that nothing would happen? Would he be more likely to progress things here in a more neutral space? But his bedroom had a _bed_ in it. “Your room,” said Sherlock decisively.

John took Sherlock by the hand and led him upstairs. They sat side by side on the end of John’s bed kissing and letting their hands roam over each other’s chest and shoulders. Sherlock was more aroused than he could remember – Mycroft was not much for kissing. He had done it a little bit at the start, just to get Sherlock going, but in recent days he tended to use pain instead and then go straight to the main event. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time Mycroft had kissed him, and they had never had long sessions of kissing at all. Mycroft had always said it only counted if it was part of worshipping his cock.

But this was nice. There was warmth and intimacy, as well as heat. Sherlock got the distinct impression that John liked kissing. He was certainly good at it. His mouth was very inventive. Just when Sherlock was getting used to a particular motion, John would change to something different. Keeping everything fresh and exciting. Sherlock thought he could do this for hours.

Then John groaned and pushed Sherlock flat on his back on the bed. “Oh God, your mouth is amazing. I want to kiss you forever, but I’m ready for a bit more, if you are?”

“Yes, John.” _Anything. Everything._

John was opening his shirt, kissing his way down his body, and for one shocked moment Sherlock thought that maybe John was going to go down on him. But when he arrived at Sherlock’s waistband John pulled himself up again to lie beside Sherlock. “May I?” he whispered, as his hand hesitated over the button to Sherlock’s trousers.

“Yes, please.” Then John’s hot hands were on him, pushing down his trousers, delving into his pants and touching him everywhere that was most sensitive. Sherlock was overwhelmed with sensation. He had a vague feeling that he should be doing something more with his hands, that he should be pleasing John or at least offering to do so, but his vocal cords seemed to have stopped working. Stopped forming words anyway, although there was some incoherent gasping and groaning going on.

John’s hands were just as skilled as his mouth, and the combination of the two was devastating. Sherlock felt the critical mass of heat gathering in his belly and tore his mouth away from John’s long enough to gasp out, “John, please, I need… May I…? Please let me come?”

John’s mouth and hands stilled. John pulled his head back far enough to focus properly on Sherlock’s face. “What did you say?”

Sherlock whimpered and closed his eyes, “I know I don’t deserve it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I was out of line. You’ll tell me when I can, won’t you? You’ll let me come if I’m good to you, won’t you?” He started fumbling at John’s pants, cursing himself for not being more focused at undressing John earlier.

“Er, no, that wasn’t what I meant. Jesus, Sherlock, what kind of relationships were you in before?”

Sherlock continued to pull ineffectually at John’s pants, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know I’m not well-trained. You tell me what to do and I’ll do my best, but please John, be a kind master, let me come later tonight. Please? I… I’ve never been like this before, needing it so much.”

John bit his lip and seemed to arrive at a conclusion. “We’ll talk about this later, but you can come whenever you like, OK? If you like the way I’m touching you then just let go and come when it feels right. And I’ll do the same. How about that?”

“Yes, John. You are so good to me, I’ll make it up to you later if you’ll just touch me right… aah, there, like that,” Sherlock hissed through his teeth as the tingling heat gathered tighter and tighter in his groin. “Oh, John, that feels so good… so hot… I’ve never felt… not like this... Oh! Now! Right there, right now…” Then Sherlock was crying out and groaning as pleasure flooded through his whole body and pulsed out over John’s hand.

“Oh God, you are so sexy,” gritted out John through clenched teeth. “Touch me like this.” John took Sherlock’s hand and guided it to his fully erect and weeping cock. He slid their intertwined fingers up and down his shaft, wet with Sherlock’s release and it was only a few moments before John was gasping and shuddering with his own ecstasy.

When John lay still, Sherlock leaned down over the edge of the bed and caught up his shirt. He didn’t dare use any of John’s clothes. He wiped the sticky residue off them both, then lay down again next to John. They rested together for a moment before Sherlock felt John frowning and thinking next to him.

“Sherlock?” John finally asked, “Do you always… Have you…?” he cleared his throat and tried again. “Regardless of what has happened in other relationships, I don’t want you to ask my permission to come, OK? That is just too controlling for me. I want you to come if it’s good for you.” John paused, then added, “Though it is generally considered polite to warn someone if you are going to come down their throat.”

“Yes, John. You want me to come, not to ask permission, and to warn you if I’m going to come in your mouth.” Sherlock summarized.

John frowned, seeming not entirely happy with this statement. “I don’t want you to come because you think that’s what _I_ want. I want you to come because you feel good and you just can’t help it. If I’m not giving you what you need, I want you to tell me. Will you do that?”

“Yes John,” said Sherlock again, although he wasn’t sure if he meant it.

John kissed him lightly several times. “Sherlock, what kind of relationships have you been in before? Were they always with people who dominated and controlled you? Some of what you’ve been saying doesn’t sound exactly healthy to me.”

Sherlock hesitated. How much could he tell John without sending him screaming for the door? Perhaps mostly the truth, without mentioning any names. “Well, I’ve only really had one serious relationship,” he began, “it started when I was in high school and went for several years. I suppose you would call it a dominant/submissive relationship but since it was the only one I’ve ever had I’m not quite sure what was unusual about it.” _Apart from the obvious fact of being an incestuous relationship with my brother, that is._

“So you’re used to being told what to do in the bedroom, is that right?” John asked gently, “And how far did you go?”

“All the way, John.” _In fact I’ve probably done things you’ve never even heard of._

“Ah, right. That’s all fine then. Anything else I should know about your relationship with… What was his name by the way?”

Sherlock free associated frantically to think of a man’s name. Two men’s names. “Victor Trevor,” he finally blurted out. “His name was Victor Trevor, and he used to like to whip me with a riding crop.”

John’s eyes widened with horror, “Sherlock, no! You don’t… I mean, _do_ you want me to do that to you? Is that what you like?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock realized with a start that he actually didn’t. His relationship with Mycroft was at least as much about pain and domination as it was about sex. Mycroft had always set the terms, to the point that Sherlock actually didn’t know what turned him on, apart from Mycroft himself.

“Well then, let’s keep it fairly vanilla for now and maybe we can work up to the kinky stuff, if you think you want to.” John’s hands were roaming down Sherlock’s back. “God, you have such a gorgeous arse I want to kiss it and pat it and generally be very nice to it. I can’t imagine wanting to take a crop to it. Unless you really want me to,” he added hastily.

“No, not right now,” said Sherlock lazily, “I’m very happy and comfortable right here.”

“Mmm, me too,” murmured John.

Before they consciously realized what was about to happen they were both asleep, curled up tightly together in John’s single bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know I said I was going to try to upload the chapters in pairs, but I haven't been very well lately. I decided to put this chapter up and I'll get the Mycroft one up in a few days.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings, people. This is a rape scene, no two ways about it.

Mycroft had been busy, and the next thing he knew it was the weekend and he had a whole Saturday afternoon to fill. He hadn’t seen Sherlock for a while, the demands of the British government had kept him fully occupied. The poor boy must be pining for him by now. Mycroft decided to give him a treat – spend the whole weekend with him. It had been a while since they had taken a weekend away together. He sent a car to Baker Street and a text to tell Sherlock what to expect.

_Pack a bag and clean yourself inside and out. My car will call for you in one hour. MH._

_I’ll be ready in an hour but I can’t go away for the whole weekend. Case. SH._

_I will tell the Yard to back off, don’t worry about them. MH._

_Private case, the body parts will go off if I leave them. I’ll meet you at the Diogenes in an hour. SH._

_Very well. Don’t be late. MH._

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow he no longer wanted to spend a whole weekend with Mycroft. He only wanted to be with John now. Still, he knew that whipping him made Mycroft feel better, so he had best allow that. He wondered if he could keep Mycroft from penetrating him – now that he had felt John’s hands on him he wanted to feel John inside him as well, to know what John looked like and sounded like in the throes of ecstasy, to know that he could make John feel that happy. He briefly thought about refusing Mycroft, but shook it off. Mycroft would not like that.

**\+ + + + +**

Mycroft was seated in his chair in the Diogenes ‘playroom’ when Sherlock arrived. “Good to see you, brother mine, it’s been a while. Why don’t you take off your clothes and get comfortable?”

Sherlock started to strip without saying anything. Mycroft waved a languid hand at the refreshments table. “Help yourself to whatever you like. We have all afternoon.”

“Mycroft, much as I appreciate your making the time for me, I have some time-critical experiments on the go at the moment. I need to get back to the lab by four.”

Mycroft grimaced, “Sherlock, I think we can all acknowledge that what you really do in that lab isn’t science. It’s indulging your questionable taste for the macabre and creating sensational displays to fluster inferior minds. In short,” Mycroft came up behind Sherlock and pressed against his back, laying one hand flat on his bare belly to prevent him from moving away. “It doesn’t matter if your experiments _rot_. I want you here with me.”

Mycroft moved back to his chair and sighed loudly. “I didn’t really want to start our afternoon like this. Why do you always provoke me so, brother? I had been planning to give you a nice treat after neglecting you shamefully last week.”

Sherlock was looking into his glass of scotch, so Mycroft could not see his expression as he said, “What kind of a treat?”

Mycroft bit back a smile. That was his little brother, always curious, always playing hard-to-get but underneath he was just hard for Mycroft. “I thought we might have some tender and sweet vanilla sex for a change, would you like that? I realized that I was rather hard on you last time, you know sometimes the mood takes me like that. But I wanted to make it up to you. Come here.”

Sherlock was still staring into his glass. “You know, you could offer me a choice sometimes. If you wanted to give me a treat.”

Mycroft frowned, “What is this? A little rebellion? I know better than you do what you need, and I make sure you get it. I don’t approve of ‘topping from the bottom’ so put down that glass and _come here_.” On the last two works he let the volume of his voice rise just a little, so that Sherlock would know that he did not mean to be thwarted.

Sherlock obeyed, sinking to his knees in front of Mycroft’s chair. “I don’t mean to be naughty,” he insisted, “but I’m not six any more. I can handle making some decisions of my own. I want our relationship to be more equal.”

“Dear God, has someone been putting ideas into your head? Equality!” Mycroft snorted, “Does the snail ask for equality with the eagle? Is a match equal with the sun? Don’t be ridiculous. All the little ant-people scurrying around living their daily lives may well want equality with each other, I wouldn’t know, but in this relationship, _I_ am the superior mind and _you_ obey. Is that clear?”

Sherlock nodded silently and subsided. Mycroft sighed again. He had wanted to make Sherlock happy, like when they were children together. Why was Sherlock so hard to please these days? Always kicking against the traces like he was still a rebellious teenager. It was getting tiresome.

“Excellent, now let’s have sex shall we? I’m in the mood for a nice little play with your body. Actually, if you want choices, how about I let you choose if you want me to take you on your back or on your front? There you are – don’t say I never give you anything!” He smiled broadly at his brother.

Sherlock took a deep breath and hesitated, “Could I just suck you off instead? I really want to get back to the lab.”

The blow was so fast that Sherlock never even saw it coming. Mycroft backhanded him across the face. “Ungrateful brat! You asked for choices, I gave you choices. Should have known you would try to take advantage of the situation. Get on that bed now and the next thing out of your mouth had better be ‘yes sir’ or I’ll beat you until you can’t sit for a month.”

Sherlock was still sprawled on his back on the floor, dazedly rubbing his cheek with his hand. Mycroft started to get up out of the chair, but Sherlock scrambled quickly to the foot of the bed, kneeling beside it.

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was still trying to manipulate the situation, trying to tempt Mycroft into using his mouth. Now he was going to have to insist or be seen to be weak. Training Sherlock was a full-time occupation.

“Get on that bed, on your stomach. I won’t tell you again,” Mycroft hissed threateningly.

“No.” Even though he was kneeling at Mycroft’s feet Sherlock’s gaze was direct and defiant. Mycroft felt red rage sweeping over him. It was bad enough the whole world was defying his attempts to order it, and the British government was riddled with spies and incompetents. He would not be flouted by his own little brother!

Mycroft grabbed a handful of curly hair and shoved Sherlock’s head forward until his face was pressed into the sheet. Then he delivered two open handed slaps to Sherlock’s arse, hard enough to make his hand sting. “Up and present, or by God I’ll make you regret it,” he hissed in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock was crawling up onto the bed, but too slowly for Mycroft’s taste. As he started undoing his trousers he delivered a few more slaps to Sherlock’s thighs. Then he climbed up on the bed and knelt behind his brother’s glorious red-and-white arse. “You are so beautiful, Sherlock, so gorgeous and so entirely mine.”

Without warning or preparation he thrust all the way into Sherlock’s body, and he felt Sherlock jolt and groan beneath him. He was glad Sherlock was finally enjoying himself, but he did not really need commentary today. He pushed Sherlock’s face down into the sheets again, smothering his noises. Actually that angle was quite advantageous, next time he might tell Sherlock to get on elbows and knees from the start.

Mycroft was just enjoying rocking his hips into Sherlock’s tight body and thinking about reaching around to make sure his brother was also having fun, when Sherlock suddenly lifted his head off the bed and spoke clearly over his shoulder.

“No. Stop. I don’t want this. I want John now, not you. I only want John inside me.”

Mycroft forced Sherlock’s head back down onto the bed. “Do you want me to hit you again? You can just ask for it, you know. You don’t have to make up ridiculous stories about John. I know John has never had you – did you think I wouldn’t? Please Sherlock, all that time spent with morons is affecting your brain.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a few more slaps and one long scratch down his back, but he did not have time to mark Sherlock really well before he felt his orgasm approaching. He shoved deep into Sherlock a few more times, rocking both their bodies in time with Sherlock’s moans of “No, no, please no…”

Sherlock’s body was tight around him, silky smooth and blood-hot and altogether delicious. Sherlock’s moans had disintegrated into wordless sobs and the trembling of his body was sending delightful thrills along Mycroft’s cock. He gave a few more deep strokes, then held still and let the orgasm wash through his whole body until he was warm and glowing.

Sighing, Mycroft curled his arm around Sherlock and allowed himself to collapse, carrying Sherlock to the bed with him so that they landed on their sides with Mycroft curled up against Sherlock from behind. Sherlock quickly wriggled away enough to turn over onto his back. Mycroft was surprised to see that Sherlock’s face was flushed and stained with tears.

Mycroft touched the tip of his finger to Sherlock’s face. “Why brother?” he asked gently.

“I… I told you I didn’t want that,” Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft clicked his tongue with irritation, “And _I_ told you that I would give you what you needed. It’s been too long and we both needed a good orgasm. Don’t you feel better now?”

“Yes Mycroft,” sighed Sherlock, dutifully.

“Very well. I’m going to sleep now. Why don’t you read some Shakespeare to me? Anything you have in your Mind Library will do.”

As he drifted off to the sound of Sherlock reciting the opening lines of ‘Twelfth Night’, Mycroft reflected with some sorrow that Sherlock was getting harder to tame. Why couldn’t he have stayed the little brother who had admired Mycroft so much?


	6. Chapter 6

John entered the flat after a long day at the surgery and found himself immediately engulfed by six feet of ravenous detective who was kissing his face, his neck, unbuttoning his shirt and kissing down his chest.

“Hey, can I at least put down my bag and… mph!” John’s words were smothered in more kisses. Giving in to the inevitable, in the form of a very determined detective, John dropped his bag in the middle of the floor and allowed himself to be drawn across the room to the sofa. After a shorter time than seemed possible he was naked, erect and panting. He pulled away from Sherlock for a moment to catch his breath in order to talk.

“If we’re going to do this, we should at least try to make it to one of the bedrooms,” he gasped, “I don’t really want to take you right here in the middle of the living room.”

Sherlock made a noise that would have been a complaint if had contained any words, then heaved himself off the couch and by persistently kissing John into silence, slowly walked him backwards into Sherlock’s bedroom.

They fell together onto the bed and resumed the kissing which had never really stopped. Sherlock had stripped off his remaining clothes somewhere along the way, and John was in a haze of delirious anticipation. Tonight was going to be a _good_ night.

“God, I want to take you, to be inside you. Will you let me?” he panted.

Sherlock was already reaching for his desk drawer for the lube, but as he turned John noticed something. “Hang on a tick, what’s this scratch down your back?”

Sherlock quickly lay down on his back and spread his legs, “Oh nothing much, I just scratched myself on a rough tile in the shower the other day. I’ll show you where it is later. Don’t you have something more interesting to do right now?”

John sat up and moved towards the end of the bed, away from Sherlock. “Let me have a look at that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “It’s nothing John, no need for the doctor to worry.”

“That wasn’t a request, Sherlock. I know you think I’m an idiot most of the time, but I’m a doctor and I’m not stupid. That scratch was not from a rough tile. Show me, or this stops right here, right now.” John folded his arms and raised one eyebrow. He was surprisingly intimidating for a short man with no clothes on.

Sherlock sighed and turned over. “See, just a scratch. Not infected, nothing to worry about.”

“Sherlock, this is a scratch from human fingernails. As well as the one long scratch there’s three smaller scratches beside it.”

Sherlock started, he hadn’t realized that. It is difficult to inspect your own back properly.

John stood up and started backing away, “I realize we never said anything about exclusivity, Sherlock, but I need it in a relationship. If you’re not willing…”

“I am,” Sherlock interrupted. “That’s what I want too. Just you and me, only… it’s complicated.”

John rolled his eyes, “I’ve heard that before. ‘Complicated’ means you’re not willing to do the normal thing and just have one lover at a time.” John started searching the floor for something to wear. “I’m not willing to be part of that. Come back to me when you’re free and we’ll talk about it.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock blurted. “I can’t end the relationship with My…”

“With your what?” John retorted angrily, “Your boyfriend? Your lover?”

“No!” denied Sherlock, “It isn’t like that. I’m… I’m afraid to break it off with him. I don’t know what he might do.”

John found a shirt of Sherlock’s and started pulling it on. “Well, you’re going to have to make a decision. I won’t…” he paused, looking thoughtful. “You said you’d only had one relationship, but I just realized you never said it had ended. It’s Victor Trevor isn’t it? The relationship you’ve been in since high school with someone who beats you?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but the answer was obvious in his averted gaze.

“Sherlock, this is an abusive relationship! God, he scratches you, beats you and makes you afraid to leave him despite the fact that you obviously want to be with someone else. Have you even told him about wanting to leave or are you just two-timing both of us?”

“I told him about wanting to break it off with him so I could be with you, yes.”

“Well then, that’s a start. What did he say?”

“That you only share a flat with me because you’re broke, and that no-one would ever really want me except him.”

John cursed fluently before saying, “That’s ridiculous and totally untrue! Let’s add emotional manipulation to the list, shall we? Sherlock, this isn’t healthy. I won’t be party to it. You have to choose for yourself. You can stay with Victor and we can be friends if that’s what you want, but I won’t progress this relationship with you until you are free.”

Sherlock shuddered, “John, you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Why not? Did he threaten to kill himself if you left him?”

Sherlock stared, genuinely surprised, “No, why would he do that?”

John shrugged, “It’s a common ploy in abusive relationships. You said you were afraid to leave him because you didn’t know what he’d do.”

“I don’t – but he won’t do it to himself.”

John turned pale, “Sherlock, if you’re afraid of what he might do to you, you can get a court order to keep him away from you.”

Sherlock snorted, “That would never work. He’s in bed with the police… so to speak…” Sherlock trailed off as an idea occurred to him. “He might let me go if he became interested in someone else…”

“So,” said John with a slightly brittle brightness, “shall I make us some tea and hunt up some dinner?”

“But John! I wanted you to… I mean, I wanted to please you tonight. I’ll break it off with… Trevor, I promise I will, but I need to choose the right moment. In the meantime, will you let me please you with my mouth? If you don’t want the rest of me?”

John sighed, “I can’t believe you don’t even call him by his first name. This gets worse the more I hear about it.”

_Oh, John. You don’t know the half of it. And if I have anything to say about it, you never will._

Sherlock shook his head to clear it of the depressing thoughts, then raised his face to John with a smile, “I’m here, with you and I’m willing to do whatever you want. Even if you don’t want to have sex with me, I’m sure we can think of other things which would be… mutually satisfying?”

John stood still for a moment, a variety of emotions flickering across his face so quickly even Sherlock had trouble reading them all. There was desire, yes, and sorrow and love and… _pity?_

John finally said quietly, “No, I don't think that's a good idea. I'll wait for you, Sherlock. Never doubt that you are worth waiting for. For now, I want you to own yourself whole and entire. Only then will you be able to choose freely to give yourself away. Then, if you come to me I'll do everything we both want."

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock gently on the forehead, then left the room and shut the door behind him. Sherlock lay naked on his bed, frustrated in body but strangely calm in his mind. He knew what he needed to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this is Dark!Mycroft. Rape, physical abuse and victim mentality are here.

John called out from his seat by the window, “Sherlock, there’s a black car pulling up outside the flat.”

Sherlock did not reply, but put on his coat and quickly gathered up some random papers to hold when he realized his hands were shaking. “He probably wants me to take a case for him,” he sniffed disdainfully. “If it is a complex one I may not be back tonight.”

“All right,” said John, without looking up from the newspaper.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Sherlock, and swept out of the flat to face his fate.

**\+ + + + +**

At the Diogenes Club, Sherlock made his way to Mycroft’s room, his game plan firmly in mind. He would see this through, whatever the cost. John was worth it. And to be truthful, he was quite looking forward to being free to choose for himself. It would be a novel experience. Yes, focus on the end game, the goal. Don’t think about the damage which could he might sustain in the process of getting there.

As usual, Mycroft was already ensconced in his chair when Sherlock entered the room. “Strip and lie on the bed,” he instructed.

“I have something to say first,” said Sherlock quietly. He stood just inside the door, head down, not openly defiant in his posture or tone.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. This was new. Sherlock had, of course, gone through a teenage rebellion phase when he did not want to be dominated by his older brother, but Mycroft had thought he was past all that. He wasn’t on drugs, so he was not just lashing out at the closest person. What could possibly have inspired Sherlock at this point to break training and demand to speak? Mycroft genuinely could not think of anything, which was a new and intriguing situation.

“Very well. Speak.”

Sherlock’s voice was low but clear, and occasionally there was a slight tremor of controlled but deeply felt emotion. “You and I have been in a relationship since I was a teenager. I am very grateful for all you have taught me and shown me. But I feel the need to make my own way now and I want to try having a relationship with John.” Sherlock had dithered back and forth over telling this straight out to Mycroft, but he would soon know anyway so Sherlock had decided to be as straight-forward as possible. “John wants exclusivity in a partner, so I would like to put our relationship… back on a more usual fraternal footing.”

Sherlock had given the phrasing of his request a lot of thought. He did not want to say to Mycroft to “stop” anything, or worse that he wanted to “break off” anything. Such terms could only be viewed as a challenge. And if he could shove off any of the responsibility for the relationship changes to John’s demands, that would help too. Above all, he wanted to avoid saying the word “no” to Mycroft – that had never worked out well for them, even on the rare occasions that Mycroft had taken his refusal seriously.

“What John doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said Mycroft dismissively.

Sherock took a deep breath. This was it, time to make his statement and chance the consequences. “This is what I want too. If you don’t let me go, I’ll make it public about what we’ve been doing. There’s a detective inspector I know at New Scotland Yard, and if I give him the evidence I’ve collected he will be forced to investigate. You can probably suppress the outcome of the investigation, but it will start rumours that would not be good for your career in Whitehall.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. Sherlock was serious. The detective inspector thing was a bluff, had to be. “Why don’t you let me think about it? Strip and get on the bed for me. I’m in the mood for sex, and I think an orgasm would do you good too. Wouldn’t you like that? You know I can make you feel good – I know which buttons to press and exactly how hard you like it.” Mycroft smiled suggestively. This was the way, dangle the carrot and Sherlock would get distracted. He’d never push through with this crazy idea. Keep him busy and entertained and he would forget anyone but Mycroft had ever existed.

Sherlock hesistated, then said very clearly, “No. I’m never playing these games with you again.” _Well, that’s torn it. There is only one way this can go now._ Mycroft letting him go without protest had always been extremely unlikely.

Mycroft felt the red rage rising into his chest, his vision dimming, but he gritted his teeth and tried to breathe through it, tried to give Sherlock another chance. “I said: strip.” Mycroft would have liked to repeat the entire instruction, but his self-control was shredding and he didn’t trust his voice.

“No.” Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and waited for all hell to break loose.

It didn’t take long. The next thing Sherlock knew he was on the floor, the whole right side of his face on fire with pain. Mycroft had never hit him in the face before except with an open palm – had never wanted to leave marks, but clearly now all limits were gone.

Sherlock felt himself being hoisted into the air by the back of his jacket and belt, and thrown towards the bed. He remained perfectly limp, allowed his body to lie where it fell without attempting to move. He knew from experience that the struggle would only make Mycroft more excited. The best way out was through, and perhaps if he were totally passive it would all be too boring and Mycroft wouldn’t be able to get it up. Perhaps.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and his breathing even as he felt Mycroft rip his trousers down. Mycroft was panting and growling under his breath. Would it be a caning day or a rough sex day? The whistle of the implement through the air gave Sherlock a fraction of a second warning. It was the paddle with air holes. Shit. _My body is only transport for my mind. Nothing he can do to my body can kill my spirit._

For the next half hour Sherlock repeated his mantra internally as he lay completely without resistance or response to Mycroft’s shouts or beating. He ignored the whip, the cane and the paddle without a sound or twitch of protest. When his backside was a mass of blisters and angry red skin, Mycroft condescended to mount him and use him as a vessel for his pleasure. It was over in fairly short order – after an extended beating Mycroft always came quickly.

Finally, Mycroft withdrew his flaccid cock from Sherlock’s abused hole, allowing his semen to drip down Sherlock’s thighs. “All right then, slug.” Mycroft said, with disgust. “I’ve had enough of trying to train you to respond to me properly. Get out of my sight. Go find yourself another master, I’m sick of you. Don’t come crying back to me either, when John loses patience with you or can’t work out how to please you. You have a sick, twisted mind and a frigid body – good luck getting any pleasure out of it with anyone else. This is officially _over_.”

Mycroft zipped up his pants and straightened his waistcoat. He went to put on his jacket and noticed a small white rectangle of paper on the floor. He picked it up. It was a card with the name and contact details of one Detective Inspector G. Lestrade. Mycroft pocketed it. He might need to do some investigation on this tame D.I. of Sherlock’s.

“Just one last piece of advice, Sherlock,” Mycroft said over his shoulder “Don’t let the club door hit your arse on the way out.” Then he was gone.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed and his body completely limp. His face, back, buttocks and thighs were on fire. His arse ached and he could feel Mycroft’s sperm slowly trickling down his leg. So this was what winning felt like.

**\+ + + + +**

Sherlock was in the bath trying to soak the day’s events out of his muscles and soothe his over-excited mind when he heard John’s key in the front door. John would see his bruises and be possessive, protective, maybe even sexually excited by them. Sherlock decided to make the most of it. He quickly put on his most distressed expression and dashed some shampoo into his own eyes. The sting was worth the redness and slight puffiness it would create: it was the quickest way to simulate hours of crying. He turned his face away from the bathroom door to maximize the impact when he showed John his black eye.

John knocked on the bathroom door, “Sherlock? Are you in there?”

“Come in John,” Sherlock called out.

John swung open the bathroom door, “If you don’t mind, I thought I’d just wash my hands… Shit, Sherlock! What happened to you?”

Sherlock turned up his face to John, and enjoyed the shock and horror on his friend’s face at the sight of his rapidly purpling right eye and still-red cheek. “I broke it off with Victor Trevor.”

John gasped and reached out to touch Sherlock’s cheek, but let his hand fall short. “He did _this_ to you?”

“I was afraid something like this would happen, but I did it anyway,” Sherlock let one tear run down his cheek, “See how much I love you? I did what you said and paid the price for it.”

John gave a weak smile, “How about you hop out of the bath and come into the kitchen where the light is better and let me take a look at your face. I’d hate to think that anything might be broken.”

Sherlock stood up and reached for a towel, and once again John gasped and it sounded like he also bit back a sob. It must look worse than he had thought.

Sherlock twisted around and looked down at his own backside in the bathroom mirror. He had to admit, it was a spectacular sight. Against his pale skin the lines from the caning looked livid, and the bruises were coming up dark purple and blue from his lower back almost to his knees. Some of the blisters on his bottom had broken open in the bath – he frowned at this last item. Everything else he could take in stride with a shrug and a philosophical attitude, but what if John didn’t like the mess of open sores? Not to mention that it would hurt if he had to lie on his back for John to take him. Still, even knowing how it would turn out, he could not think of any other way to convince Mycroft that he was never going to play his game again.

“Oh God, Sherlock. I never would have insisted if I’d realized…”

“What? That I was right?” Sherlock allowed a trace of bitterness into his voice.

“Well, now you are free, at least. Enjoy your freedom and owning yourself. When you are healed, come and talk to me.”

“Talk?” Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “I’d have thought you wanted more than just talk?”

“Perhaps, but not until you are recovered from this relationship. Make sure your heart is whole again before you give it away.” John kissed him lightly on the forehead, then left the bathroom.

Sherlock thumped his head on the wall with frustration. Wait until he was recovered from his relationship with Mycroft? That would be the seventeenth of never. He had fully expected John to start with soothing cream on his arse and end with his cock inside it. Clearly, he had miscalculated somewhere. Seducing a doctor was turning out to be more difficult that he had thought.


End file.
